Rings of Smoke
by wood painted flesh
Summary: Clary Morgenstern hasn't lived the ideal life. After meeting Jace Herondale-Lightwood by chance in a club late one night, she takes the opportunity to run away with him. They both have mysterious pasts, but are they somehow connected? Rated M for swearing, drug use, and violence.
1. PROLOGUE

*****First chapter story as well as first TMI story. This prologue takes place two months after the actual story plot. Basically, the entire story will be a sort of flashback. The prologue is in the PRESENT. Also, this story is already written out in my documents, but I will still accept ideas and if I like them I will fit them in somewhere in the story.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Mortal Instruments characters.**

*****This story will be updated every SATURDAY at around 10pm CDT/CST time*****

**WORD COUNT: 2815**

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

Jace sits patiently in the interrogation room of a police station in a small town of Colorado called Brookside. He waits for a long time. Jace sees a lot of different officers, but no one really talks to him. All they utter are words like "wait here" and "don't move", and "do you understand", and telling him what was going to happen next. He is dizzy, and feels the need to spew his guts. His throat is dry, but he refuses to give in to the water they are offering him

The room he sits in is small, almost like the size of a storage unit. There is only the seat Jace sits in and the small table in front of him; the walls are bare, with the exception of a CCTV camera in the corner and a giant glass window. Jace knows it's a window because he was able to see into the room before he was placed inside, whereas on the inside, it was a mirror. He has the feeling they are trying to make him feel uncomfortable, but Jace doesn't buy it. He sits there, still as a stone. He's learned to cloud his emotions. And he's learned that if a human is tired, but needs to stay awake they must keep their mind occupied. So that's what Jace does; he sings songs in his head, daydreams, counts up to one hundred in different languages (English, French, Latin, Welsh).

After sitting in the room for what seems like hours, the door finally creaks open. A short, fat police officer whose nametag reads "Officer Crowley" stands in the doorway. Jace sees another officer, a taller dark-skinned man whose nametag reads "Officer DeWitt" stands behind him.

"Good morning, Jace," the stubby police officer says. Jace notices a hairy mole on the man's cheek. He shudders. "I'm Officer Crowley and this is my partner, Officer DeWitt."

Jace only stares at the two of them. They stop to stand in front of him.

"You know, Jace," Crowley says, "you've become _quite_ the celebrity over the past couple of months. You realize how much trouble you're in?"

Jace nods. Crowley continues: "You know why you're in trouble?"

"I suppose."

"You understand that this is serious?"

Jace smirks. "It's a lot less serious than you're making it seem."

Chubby slams his hands down on the table and looks Jace right in the eye. He doesn't even flinch. "Drugs, alcohol, cigarettes and cigars were found in the truck of a minor, who is thousands of miles away from home. Explain that."

Jace stretches his arms behind his head. "I'm a teenager who ran away from home. What else do you want me to say?"

"You're underage, kid. How did you buy all of these illegal things?" He doesn't give Jace time to answer. "That's right. You stole them, with that girl."

Jace struggles to remain calm. "Don't call her that."

"Excuse me?"

"Her name's Clary."

"Are you gonna answer me or not?"

"Fake IDs, buddy. Have you ever been a teenager?"

Crowley scoffs. "Of course I have."

"Lemme rephrase that. Have you ever been a _fun_ teenager?"

The officer's face turns purple with rage. DeWitt steps in. "Alright, enough." He looks at Jace. "Can you tell me why the two of you ran off?"

Jace doesn't answer. He and Clary had discussed this; they swore if one of them—or both—ever get caught by authority, lie. The two of them had come up with an identical story if something like this had ever happened to them and Jace was grateful for thinking ahead. He just wishes he wouldn't have to tell the fake story at all.

His silence causes DeWitt to sigh. He looks over at Crowley, who is standing in the corner with his arms across his chest and nods. The two of them leave the room. Jace sighs and rolls his shoulders. He leans back in his chair. He tries to relax, but he still feels anxious.

DeWitt walks back in the room, Crowley isn't with him.

He says, "My partner's had a bad day. Everyone has been looking for the both of you for two months and when Crowley finally does, he doesn't get praise for it. And to add to his misery, you're being difficult. We're bringing in a special friend of ours if you still refuse to answer our questions. I'm going to ask one more time—why did you run away?"

"I'll answer your question." Jace rests his forearms on the table in front of him, his shoulders hunched and his hands clasped together. "But first, you have to answer mine. Why does it matter? I'm going back home—that much is obvious. Thousands of kids run away from home all the time and they get away with it. They never see their families anymore. So why am I different? Why do I matter?"

"The Lightwoods asked us to find you. They care about you."

"What are you not telling me?"

"Answer my question now."

_"What are you not telling me?"_ He asks again, his teeth clenched.

DeWitt sighs. "You know your own family, Jace. You know well why they wanted you back."

"So that I don't ruin their reputation? Is that it? Daddy Lightwood is a really good lawyer and Mommy Lightwood hosts charity events; Big Brother Lightwood went to Yale for Law School to follow his father's footsteps and Little Sister Lightwood has her own clothes line for teen girls. All that's left is Baby Brother Lightwood, who's a star at everything he does. I don't get it. I'm not even their blood. I'm a foster kid they felt bad for. They pitied me. Why do they care? Because it would look bad? Adopt a kid, he runs away; it's because it would look bad on their part, right? Because they couldn't fix him—me, after seven years."

The officer is stunned into silence. Jace curses himself silently. He didn't meant to say all of that. He let them get to him.

DeWitt clears his throat. "My question."

"We haven't lived the best of lives; you probably know that. We aren't—weren't—runaways," Jace pauses. "We're throwaways." This wasn't particularly true; the Lightwoods had taken him in when he was ten years old and they had cared for him and given him a nice home. But it was the other half he was talking about; his birth parents.

DeWitt is silent for a while. "You expect me to believe that?"

"What else are you going to believe? It's the truth."

The officer doesn't say another word. He stares at Jace and Jace stares back, unfazed. Then he leaves without another word. Jace sits back in his chair. He waits in the room for a long time, and the camera in the corner means he is being recorded. He will not let them see how worried he is. He makes his face completely devoid of any emotion.

He decides to count to two hundred while he waits.

Eventually, the two police officers return. Jace stops counting at one hundred and thirty-eight in Latin when the door swings open. Someone trails behind the two officers. Jace tenses up; he stands quickly, his chair falling behind him. His voice is dry and tense. "Alec."

His foster brother, Alec, smiles tightly and nods once. "Jace." He motions for Jace to sit. He does. "We've been looking for you for a while, Jace."

Jace's eyes widen. _"We?_ Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

Alec speaks over him. "I need you to tell me why you did what you did and where you went."

"Are you serious?" He looks over at the two cops. "Is he serious?"

Crowley smirks. "Deadly."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Very much, yes."

Alec clears his throat. "Jace."

"I'm not answering _shit_ with these guys here."

Alec looks at the officers and they nod in understanding. He shut the door behind the cops and paced the room for a bit. He stops. His eyes lazily land on Jace.

"Because you are underage, you'll be staying under control of juvenile until trial."

"Right down to business, huh?"

"I'm glad you didn't physically resist the police when they found you, Jace. That would have made this situation a lot worse. You're friend though, I'm sure regrets it." Jace clenches his jaw. Alec can see his muscles tensing. "I'm going to try and make things easier for you and get you outta here fast."

"Yeah? And how the fuck are you gonna do that?"

Alec smiles. "By reasoning with them. I'm gonna have the court provide services to you, such as counseling. Also have them place restrictions on you, including curfews and drug testing."

"Alec—"

"I'll see you in court, Jace." Alec walks swiftly out the door without another word, leaving Jace in silence.

Not long after, two security guards haul Jace away and into a patrol car where he is taken to a juvenile prison.

_July 14__th__, 2013_

_ It has been days—weeks? I don't remember. But today is the day of my trial. I'm not a bad person. I know a lot of prisoners—sorry, "inmates"— use this excuse, but honestly, I am just a 17-year-old-kid who did what any other 17-year-old-kid-with-daddy-issues would have done. I ran away. With a girl. And I maybe sorta fell in love with this girl. And we maybe sorta had illegal things with us, including beer and pot and cigarettes. But like I said—any other 17-year-old-kid._

_Anyway. I don't really understand why they've given me this book to write in. They told me "Think of it as therapy," as if I have ever gone to therapy before. So I asked around about it. A kid who had stabbed his father with a fork—never underestimate eating utensils ever again— who also looked way too young to be in juvie told me they give them out to inmates to regularly send in reflections on their life and prison experience. I can tell you this: prison is __not_ _that bad. I mean, you've got a toilet and a sink in your room and your food gets cooked for you._

_I don't have an ending for this entry. I don't even know why I wrote anything in the first place. I gotta go._

_July 15__th__, 2013_

_ Trial went O.K. Alec, who is supposed to be my brother but is suddenly my lawyer, did a pretty good job defending me. I'm free to go after today, with the exception of counseling and drug tests. Can't say I'm too happy with him though. See, I'm not the only one with daddy issues in the Lightwood family. Our conversation kinda went like this:_

_ALEC: You're angry._

_ME: Obviously I'm angry. I mean what the hell, man? You told me you were going to confront Robert and not go through with finishing Law School. That you wanted to do your own thing, be your own person!_

_ALEC: I did this for you!_

_ME: Well next time, don't worry about me._

_ALEC: I came here because you're my brother, Jace. I was going to tell Dad off, okay? I was going to, and . . . and then you just—disappeared. What else was I supposed to do? You followed that girl. If it was anybody else, I would have been fine with it and let you do your own thing, but she was the biggest mistake of your life! _

_I was pretty fucking pissed at this point. _

_ME: You're saying she's a mistake because she didn't come from money, is that it? I didn't come from money either, Alec. So are you saying that I'm the mistake and you're here to clean it up for the sake of your _

The door of Jace's cell bursts open. Crowley marches into the cell, DeWitt marches in behind him. Alec is there too. He smiles at Jace; the smile is not returned.

"C'mon, pretty boy." Crowley says. "You get to go home to Mommy and Daddy."

Jace scowls, but he doesn't say anything. He subtly takes the journal; it is small enough to fit up the sleeve of his jumpsuit. They take him to a place where he can change into a set of clothes that Alec bought him. Finally, Jace returns the jumpsuit, gathers all of his court papers and hides the journal in his bag; he's supposed to leave it for professionals to search for any sign of depression or further investigation. There are only two pages written in it, but for some reason he's gotten attached to it and can't leave it behind.

Alec walks over to a silver Porsche and Jace whistles. "Being a lawyer did you good, huh?"

Alec ignores him. "Get in."

Jace shrugs and opens the door. He wonders what happened to his own rusty truck. He didn't really like the old thing, but over the two months with Clary, it really grew on him. So he asks, "Do you know where they took my truck?"

"Junkyard. You won't need it anymore."

"What the _fuck,_ man? I actually _liked _my truck."

Alec smirks. "You didn't two months ago. We're doing you a favor."

"You're doing me the exact opposite." Jace was struggling to remain calm. "Can't you guys understand that I was actually _happy_ out there? I felt like I was wanted and loved for the first time. But the sake of keeping your family's name is more important than some kid's happiness, right? I mean, do you guys even _care?_"

"If we didn't care, you'd still be out there."

"If you _did_ care, you mean."

"We're done talking about this."

"No, Alec. We're not. Do you even _know_ why I left?"

Alec glances at Jace. He doesn't have an answer.

"Exactly. Because you're all too busy with your own time than to ask how _I'm_ doing. If my nightmares have gone away—which, they haven't."

"You have nightmares?"

Jace sighs and looks straight ahead. "See what I mean? It was better for me out there. She knew a lot about nightmares. She had some of her own and she would help me through the night. She knows more about me than you and your family ever will. And she and I have only known each other for two months, whereas you and your family have known me for seven fucking years. Can you see now that I belong with her out there and not here with you?"

Alec clears his throat. His voice is soft. "Yeah, man. I get it now. But you know that we could never let you just live on the streets, even if you _were _happy or not."

Jace nods solemnly. "So it's about responsibility, huh?" Alec opens his mouth to say something but Jace changes the subject quickly. "Before we fly back to New York, can I at least see her one last time?"

Alec visibly swallows and quickly masks his face to show no emotion. "We're five minutes from the airport; I'm not turning around now. And besides, I think that would be a bad idea."

"What? Why?"

Alec shrugs. "It might just be harder for you to leave, that's all."

Jace scoffs and mumbles under his breath. "_'That's all.'"_

At the airport, people recognize him. Jace doesn't like that they recognize him. All of their piercing eyes and whispers about the boy who ran away from a wealthy home. _Who would do that? He had everything he could possibly need._ Jace wants to throw up. These people don't know what life was like inside the walls of the Lightwood's mansion. It wasn't bad like it was with his father, but it wasn't good either. All types of people asked him questions—reporters, kids, teens with blogs who so happened to be there at the time of his departure, but Alec managed to keep them away.

On the plane, Alec grumbles, "You had to go and get yourself famous, huh?"

Jace smirks, remembering something Clary had told him. "It's not my fault reporters have some sort of weird boner for these kind of things."

Alec grunts in agreement and the flight is silent the rest of the way home.

.-._.-._ .-._.-._ .-._.-._ .-._.-._ .-._.-._ .-._.-._.

Officer Crowley shuffles through the files on Jace Herondale-Lightwood and Clarissa Morgenstern. "Wonder where they were headed off to. They didn't get very far."

"They drove from New York to Colorado in a little over two months in a rusty old pickup while stopping to go sightseeing and sleeping in old, musty motels. Of course they didn't get very far."

"Fair enough." Crowley sniffs. "Now, we gotta discuss the real problem at hand. What about the girl?"

"Keep looking."

"But we couldn't find her—"

"Keep looking." Crowley freezes at DeWitt's tone, but he obeys and leaves. DeWitt sighs and rubs his forehead.

* * *

**Lemme know what you think in the box below, or don't. Like I said, suggestions are always welcome.**

**Until next time.**

**Always fishing, wood painted flesh**


	2. CHAPTER ONE: FEAR HER

**Thank you to Guest and noaverageangel for the reviews!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Mortal Instruments characters.**

**Word Count: 3781**

**This story will be updated every SATURDAY at around 10pm CDT/CST time.**

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE: FEAR HER**

Graffiti is art. It is not a crime, nor should it be a crime. It's just art. And art can be beautiful or art can be ugly. Why can't law enforcements understand this? I am not a criminal; I am just a girl who wants to get my name out there. It's like these guys just come and find me, like they put a fucking tracking device on my back. I'm not the only one who writes on the walls of the abandoned Dumort Hotel. My friends tell me that I should bring it down a notch, make myself seem less suspicious, but I told them that there is no fun in that. The fun is all in the chase. Which is happening right now.

I had to abandon my spray paint—which I am very upset about. I don't have much money, and those weren't exactly cheap in my book. But it's either the cans and get thrown into a juvenile prison, or it was no cans and run like hell to safety. I chose the latter.

It was getting darker and raining harder and my bright red hair didn't usually help me much in situations where I need to blend in with my surroundings, much like now. I pull my hood over my head to try and conceal it. I sneak a glance behind me to see the community support officer stopping a businessman about something. Possibly me. Time to go.

I see my destination up ahead. Pandemonium, a popular club full of frisky teenagers looking to get laid—I am no exception. I am a regular and I have known all of the bouncers for years.

The rain gives me an excuse to run. I hear the pounding of boots behind me. I'm so focused on getting to my safe zone that I don't notice the giant puddle that soak my toes. My worn leather boots don't offer much protection. I curse loudly and run faster, my boots making a gross sloshing noise. The bouncer, Mike, looks down at me and I look up, not letting my hood to fall down. He gives me a knowing smile, pats me on the head and lets me through. Before the door shut completely behind me, I hear the complaints and the _"no fairs!"_ of the kids waiting in the rain in the line outside.

Inside smells of sweaty bodies and too much cheap cologne. The crowd is huge tonight; I should remember to keep that and the wild strobe lights to my advantage in hiding. I shove through the crowd, making my way to the small restrooms in the back. I push the door open and the couple making out jump apart. They glare at me and stalk out.

Before they leave, I yell "Were you really hoping to get laid in a bathroom?"

No answer. I sigh and make sure to lock the door. Heading over to the sink, I take small, painful steps. My toes are still frozen, and the heels of my feet are probably swollen and bloody from walking around all day. I place my hands on either side of the sink. My head slowly turns up to face myself in the mirror.

My skin is ashen, unlike the vibrant glow I used to have. My green eyes are dull. The only contrast to them is the dark circles under my eyes, making them look a tab bit brighter. My hands tighten on the sink and I bend my head to wash my face. When I look back up at my reflection, I'm taken back for just a second. My eyes have become completely black, my hair is made of fire and the smile on the demon's face contains pointed shark-like teeth. I should have known; it always showed itself when I am alone.

"Hi," it says. "I'm Clary."

"I know." I like to call it Clary 2.0.

"Can I ask you some questions?"

I don't answer; I never do. It continues. "What is your name?"

_God, I am so high._ I rub my forehead. "I pass."

"That was an easy one. You won't even tell me your name? Why do you think that is?"

I sigh. "I pass."

"Here, let me see why you can't answer that one. Basically, you can't answer those questions, so you question yourself in order to keep your mind intact. Sound about right?"

"Pass."

"Another pass? You need to start answering. This isn't even self-questioning at this point. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Sorry."

"Why are you sorry?"

"Pass."

"Were you hoping someone would start paying attention to you if got troubled enough? Or don't you realize you're alone? That no one actually cares about your suffering?"

"I can't do this right now."

"How are the cuts doing? You know, the ones on your arms."

"Pass."

"It's refreshing, huh? Finally finding something that makes you feel good?"

"Pass."

"That's how you feel isn't it? Powerful?"

"I . . ." My voice trails off.

"You've grown very strong since that first time. How does that make you feel?"

My whole body begins to shake. I shoulder my backpack and feel uneasy.

"Has that made it better? Has that driven away the hell inside your head?"

"I pass." My voice is trembling. It has never asked these kinds of questions before.

"Just answer a question already will you? Otherwise, won't the hell grow even larger?"

"I pass."

"Eight passes. That's eight times that you've denied me. You're a horrible person. The worst."

I look it right in its demonic eyes. "You've never said anything mean to me like that before. Why do you even hang around me anyway? Because of you, everyone around me gets hurt. So do I. I wish you didn't exist."

It sneers. "What—do you think I'm some kind of alter-ego you have? I thought surely you'd know better than to believe that by now. Don't you get it? I'm an ordinary emotion that everyone has. But you'd rather believe something else."

"It's just that—" I falter and look down at my shaking hands.

"You know," it says, "I believe we've had enough of this. I'm going on ahead."

When I look up, it's gone. My own reflection has gone from ashen to bloodless; it seems like my skin has just become a bag of bones. My eyes harden. I look to myself and speak.

"This is you. Faking and trying to act cool. How laughable. Who are you? Take a good look at yourself. This is who you are. You are calm and composed. You are able to see through things clearly at this age. You're outstanding. And . . . always being able to make the correct judgments, not falling into darkness. _Outstanding_.

"'That won't do.' 'This is wrong.' You reject any number of paths, choosing your path with cynicism. What do you want to do? How are you going to do it? What is your motive? Where do you want to move forward to? Say it. Hmm? Fine. Then stick to the ground forever to move forward, you creep. You little coward who can only move forward by using the method of elimination. Until you find something to reject...you shall just lie on the ground helplessly."

Any other person would have thought I was crazy. I'm grateful I remembered to lock the door behind me because anyone could have walked in on my episode. They always ended like this; me screaming at myself. One of these episodes had earned me time in the hospital, and I did everything I could to keep my cool so it wouldn't happen again. My living conditions were bad enough without the therapy lessons. The first time, I had been found lying on the ground, crying out for help. "I'm sinking. . ." I had said at the time. "Falling . . . Sinking . . . Falling . . . Damn it. Help me. . Please, help. Help me! I want to stand up . . . I don't want to lie on the ground. _Help me!"_

I slam my hands down. My fists tighten. I can't let that demon get to me. My right fist suddenly collides with the mirror in front of me. I look up at the broken glass and see nine Clarys. My knuckles begin to bleed. I struggle to wash the blood off, but I can't concentrate, can't focus. _Shaking too much; sweating too much. I have to get out of here._ I grab three paper towels and wrap them around my hand. They bleed through. _Too fast; so much blood_. I fumble with the door._ Locked; I'm trapped. Somebody fucking help me_. I unlock the deadbolt and shove my way through the crowd. Police officer is gone. Shouting. Shouting, shouting, _shouting_. People see the blood on my fist, my other hand which was covering the wound has blood seeping out through my fingers. They make way for me. Some even help me to the bar.

I am seated on one of the bar stools. People are talking around me. I don't notice any of them. One of the boys working the bar grabs my jaw gently and turns my head toward him. _Gold_. He's grabbing me. _Terrified, terrified, terrified_. He is speaking to me. I can't hear. Something about an ambulance.

I shake my head. "No," I mumble. "No ambulance. No help. I'm okay. I'm okay."

The boy's eyebrows crease, but he nods. "Everyone clear away. Give her some space." The crowd disperses slowly. Too slowly. I didn't notice the music stop, and when the DJ resumes, I'm grateful. "C'mon, let's get you fixed up."

I look up to see the boy walk into the backroom of the bar. I follow reluctantly. He tells me to sit down at a table and leaves to go into a small bathroom in the corner. He comes back out with a first-aid kit. He pulls up a chair next to me and sits on it backwards, his elbows resting across the back of the chair. He pulls out disinfectant cream and gauze. He cradles my hand in his—they're rough and calloused—and rubs the cream on as gently and slowly as he can, but I still cringe in pain. He whispers his apology and wraps the gauze around my knuckles carefully.

I sit back in my seat, and gaze at my newly bandaged hand. My breathing slows down. The boy rests his chin on his forearms and gazes at me intently. It makes me uncomfortable, like he is reading all of my secrets.

"I never did get your name," he says quietly. I smile inwardly; he doesn't hound me with questions like I figured he would.

"Clary," I tell him. I see no reason to tell him a fake name.

"Clary," My name rolls off his tongue easily. "Jace," he sticks out his hand. I shake it with my good hand awkwardly. He smiles. "That was the most excitement we got here in a while. You probably just made the business better."

"What business?" I scoff. "This place is free."

"Only for premium members, who pay ahead of time. You one of them?"

I shake my head, confused. "No. I've been coming here for nearly four years and I have never heard of that."

"Ah. You were here when they first opened. That explains it. You a regular?"

I nod and purse my lips. I suddenly feel awkward. "Sorry about all of this. I didn't mean to bleed all over the place."

"It's no problem. Can you tell me what happened?"

I hesitate, and look down at my hands. They're shaking again. I have never told anyone about my _"condition."_ So I just tell him, "I'm not sure."

Jace nods in understanding. "Though I must say, that was quite a first impression."

I smile, embarrassed and look up at the clock in the corner. It was past midnight. "I should go."

"Whoa there, Cinderella. You got folks waiting for you?"

"You could say that." I stand up shakily and head for the door. Before I could open it, he calls out.

"Hey, I can take you home, if you want."

"But I thought you were working the bar?" I haven't turned around to face him. I wish he could just back off already.

"I can ask my sister to take over my shift. She won't mind."

"It's okay—really. I'm a big girl. I can walk myself."

"Walk? Now I really need to talk you home. You can't walk home alone after midnight."

"I can take care of myself." I snap.

"Like you did tonight?" He spits back.

I whirl around to face him. "Why don't you just back off? I didn't ask for your help."

He holds up his hands. "I didn't mean it like that. C'mon, Clary."

I sigh. What was it that parents tell their kids? Don't get into cars with strangers?

"Okay, fine. But I don't want you to drop me off at home just yet."

Jace raises his eyebrows, but doesn't question me. He pokes his head through the door I was just standing at and shouts, "Iz! Take over for me really quick. Please! _No_, Izzy. I'll be right back—five minutes. Shut up, Isabelle." He shuts the door and grabs his jacket from the coat rack. He shoves his arms through the sleeves and takes out his keys. He nods toward the back door. "Let's go."

He opens the door for me and walks with me through the back parking lot until we reach an old rusty black pickup truck. The doors creak as we rip them open. It has three seats, an old radio that only took CDs and a lever to roll down the windows. I run my hands over the dashboard, impressed.

"You like this old thing?" Jace turns over the ignition. The engine roars to life.

"It's cool. I haven't used one of these," I say as I crank down the window, "in for-ev-er.

Jace gave me a crooked smile. "Where to?"

"Central Park."

His mouth falls open. "But that's in Manhattan. We're in a whole different borough."

I scoff. "It's not that far."

"Clary—"

"Do you know of another park nearby?"

"Actually, yes." He smiles triumphantly. "Beer?"

I grin. "Sure." He reaches behind him and grabs a cold beer. He hands it to me and tells me there is a bottle opener in the glove department. I take it out, pop open the cap and take a sip.

It's a short five minute ride. I stick my hand out the window and feel the nice cool breeze on my face. I sip some more beer. Jace parks under a street lamp and I place the beer in a cup holder and hop out of the truck before he's able to turn the car off. The park is small. It has a standard playground with wood chips and a small field behind it. I push passed the swings and make my way over to the field. I fall to my knees as I slip my bag off my shoulders and open the second largest pouch. I take out an empty canvas and a paint brush. I pull out a spare water bottle and a small plastic cup along with a few basic paint colors. In the smallest pouch, I take out my headlight and strap it around my head.

Jace finally catches up to me. "What are you doing?"

I look at him over my shoulder. "I do this every day. Or I try to, at least."

He comes to sit beside me. "Do what? Wait, what the hell is that?" He points to the headlight.

"I have to see somehow, right?"

"Where the fuck do you buy things like that?"

I smile. "I have my ways."

Jace shakes his head. "Okay. So what are you doing?"

"I picked this up from my mother after she . . . died. She used to ask me what my favorite part of my day was and she would paint it for me. I've been doing it for myself ever since."

Jace frowns. "Well that's not fair." He takes the canvas from my hands and I'm about to protest when he says, "You haven't had anyone ask you what your favorite part of your day was since your mother died." He smirks and the corners of my mouth begin to lift as I figure out what he was saying. "So," he begins, "Clary, what was your favorite part of your day?"

I grin and grab the canvas from his hands. I am about to do something really ballsy, and hope I don't embarrass myself. "Well," I start, "it began a little after I entered this club called Pandemonium and made a giant fool out of myself by punching a bathroom mirror. Because after that, I met a pretty attractive guy who patched me up." He grins and I take that as a good sign. I continue, "I think his name started with a J, but I don't remember. Anyway, he somehow convinced me to let him drive me to a park," I begin the outline of two people sitting in a small field. Once the basic body forms are finished, I move to the playground in the back.

Even though I'm busy painting, I can see Jace just looking at me, but I continue my story. "And he listens as I tell him this silly story of my best childhood memory even though he's a stranger." Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him shift to lay down by my crossed legs.

I set the canvas at my side and grab the water bottle and the small cup. I twist the cup into the mud on my left side so it sticks firmly in the ground and pour a small amount of water halfway. I grab the other bottles of paint and open them up with a quiet _click._

I begin with the background, using long, heavy strokes of my paintbrush. It feels like forever before beginning on the playground and the two people, but when it's finally done, I lift it up the canvas to see it better using my headlight.

Jace sits up slowly. He holds out a hand. "Lemme see." I hand it over to him carefully and I take off my headlight for him to see it better. He examines the painting intently. A slow grin spreads across his face. He hands it back to me. "So you really think I'm attractive, huh?"

_"What?"_ I hit his arm, but I'm smiling. _"T__hat's_ what you have to say?"

"I like it. It's really good." He smiles. "But . . ."

I exhale. "Yes. Okay, yes. Now take me home."

Jace laughs. "Yes ma'am." He waits patiently while I clean up. Once everything is back in my bag, he helps me to my feet and we make our way to his truck.

Inside he asks, "Address?"

I tell him hesitantly. I could have just given him a different address or told him to drop me off relatively close to where I live, but I decided that if I could tell him about my best childhood memory, I could tell him where I live as well. It's a quiet fifteen minute drive, but unlike the first time, it's comfortable.

Before we reach the building, I tell Jace to park across the street and not under a streetlight. When he asks why, I tell him "Precautionary. You could get in trouble and I don't want that and if I don't want that, then you don't want that, either."

Jace doesn't argue. He sighs and clasps his hands in front of him. "Commonwealth Boarding School, huh?"

I nod sheepishly. "More like another word for _orphanage."_

He scoffs. "Can't be that bad."

"Oh, it's not. I've just been here way too long, that's all."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, at the age of twelve, I got to choose whether I wanted to go into an orphanage, foster home, or boarding school. I figured this would be easier. I didn't want to get too attached to anyone and just get shot down again."

"Wish I had your mind when I was able to choose."

That catches me off guard. I'm about to ask about it, but he turns away, so I drop the subject as well. He speaks up again. "How did you even get out?"

I grin. "I've been living here for five years. Did you think I just sat around and studied like a good school girl?"

"Well . . ."

I laugh. "Obviously I went exploring and found the holes in their security systems. Some of them are literally _holes_. It's easier than it sounds because we don't have a patrol in the hallways making sure students don't sneak out. I guess they know it's inevitable so they don't try to stop it. Anyway, I should get going."

Jace purses his lips and nods. I'm about to open the door when Jace grabs my wrist. I watch as he reaches behind him in the space between the seats and the back window and pulls out a beer. He writes something on it and hands it to me. I look and see that he wrote down his number.

I laugh. "Clever, but one problem." I point at the school. "I've been living here since I was twelve. I don't have a phone. But there _are_ payphones around the school and one is right outside my dorm." I reach behind me and pull out another beer. Jace hands me the marker and I write down the number of the payphone near my room. "I can't promise I'll be there all the time and I _definitely_ can't promise I'll be the one answering." I hide the bottle in the front pouch of my hoodie.

This time Jace lets me slide through the already open door, and I close it as quietly as the rusty hinges allowed. Through the open window I whisper, "Call at your own risk." Before he can answer, I turn and run to the side of the building. I run my hand along the brick wall surrounding the campus until I reach the spot where I dug under the barrier a few years ago. I shimmy underneath and to the small bathroom window. Sneaking back in using the drop-off area would be too risky. The school may have a sucky security system, but there are still some cameras where it matters.

By the time I'm back in the familiar halls of the dormitory building, which we liked to call the Quarters, I realize I left my painting in Jace's truck.

I smile.

* * *

**Chapter One is finally up! Thank you for all the follows and favorites! I apologize for the week long wait; it's just the way I'm going to have things set up.**

**Until next time.**

**Grizzled veteran, wood painted flesh**


	3. CHAPTER TWO: LOVE & MONSTERS

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Mortal Instruments characters.**

**WORD COUNT: 2996**

**This story will be updated every SATURDAY at around 10pm CDT/CST time.**

**CHAPTER TWO: LOVE & MONSTERS**

* * *

As soon as I walk through the door to my dorm, I immediately regret it. My roommate, Aline, is making out with her girlfriend. It's not that I'm a homophobe; I just don't like to come home to see them nearly having sex.

"Okay!" I shout and cover my eyes. They don't pull away. "Don't mind me," I call before shutting the door behind me. Back in the hallway, I wonder for a second whose dorm room I'd be sleeping in for the night. I decide on Simon, my best friend. His dorm is on the other side of the building, but I make it in less than five minutes. I open the door easily; everyone at Commonwealth is a big family and no doors are left unlocked, unless you're doing things you don't want others to walk in on. Inside smells strongly of pot.

"Whoa," I wave a hand in front of my face. "You guys fried enough?"

Simon and his pothead friends, Sebastian, Camille and her boyfriend Raphael are sitting in a circle on the floor passing the bong around. Simon looks up at me and gives me a lazy smile, his red eyes half-lidded. "Hey Clary," his voice is smooth. "I saved you a spot." He pats the spot next to him.

I sigh. "I told you that if you want to get high, you need to cover up the smell. I bought you these incense sticks for a reason." I pick them up off of his dresser and light them up. I place it in their holder. I move to sit next to Simon. "Okay, pass that over here."

After a few inhales, everyone lays on the floor together, looking up at the ceiling. Simon had the cool idea of placing glow-in-the-dark star stickers on his ceiling like he had in his childhood bedroom. We had the lights turned off to set the peaceful tone. I think about Jace and his golden eyes and golden hair. How he had patched me up tonight, gently and calm. The way his hand moved around mine, like I was some sort of delicate rose. If only he knew.

"Mmm," Sebastian hums, interrupting my thoughts. "Alright, I think it's time to do homework."

"Are you kidding?" Camille asks. "We're fucking fried."

"Exactly." He grunts softly as he stands up and walks with slow, lazy strides over to his backpack and takes out a folder labeled ENGLISH. He takes out a worksheet. He clears his throat. "Okay, so it says I have to make analogies. What the fuck are analogies," he asks, although it sounds more like a sentence. He lies back down in his spot and places his arms behind his head.

Raphael answers, his accent thick. "Analogies are like, two different things that share a characteristic that lead to a comparison between them."

"Did you pull a dictionary out of your ass?" Camille asks. Raphael shrugs.

"Okay," Sebastian says slowly. "Someone start."

"I will," Simon says. "Wait, does it have to be good?"

"No, man. Make it the worst you could possibly think of. My teacher would expect nothing more."

"Alright." Simon clears his throat. "He was . . . he was as tall as a six foot, three inch tree."

I laugh. "That's a good one. My turn." I sigh and think for a moment. "Her vocabulary was as bad as like, whatever."

A few chuckles. It's Camille's turn. "How many do we have to do?"

"Like, fifteen."

"Easy," she says. "Okay. How about, she had a deep, throaty laugh, like that sound a dog makes before it throws up."

Everybody laughs. Sebastian says, "Oh, these are gold. Okay, here we go." He clears his throat. "He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something."

We were all rolling with laughter. We were clutching our stomachs and we were all out of breath. Simon yells, "Alright, guys! Raffie still hasn't gone yet!" It takes another five minutes for everyone to calm down, but when we finally do, Raphael speaks up.

"Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master."

Seb chokes on laughter. "What the hell is a _Thigh Master?"_

"It's an old exercise machine for your thighs."

"Oh yeah, I remember those. They were for like, old ladies." Camille giggles.

This went on for half of the night. Even after Sebastian had finished his homework, we continued to make bad analogies. I was glad that no one questioned my bandaged hand. After a while, we all just laid there on Simon's floor, watching the glow-in-the-dark stars again. Finally, Raphael speaks up. "Hey, are you all still baked?"

"Workin' on it," says Camille. She stands up and makes her way to the futon, smoking out of the bong again.

I groan. "Incense sticks! We don't want anybody waking up to pot and telling a dean!"

"Nobody does that anymore, Clary." Simon reassures me.

"Better safe than sorry." I grunt as I stand up, lighting another stick to put in Simon's dragon head incense burner. "Pass me a square, Si."

"What, you're not getting high?" He whines, but he passes me one anyway.

"Not anymore tonight. I don't need suspicious teachers on my ass tomorrow."

"I'm sure they already suspect there are potheads in this school."

"Yeah, but if I want to live here for another year, I'm gonna need a clean record."

"Which you don't."

"I can pretend I do." I light my cigarette and take a long drag.

On my very first day at Commonwealth five years ago, I had gotten into a fist fight with Simon. I started it by calling him Ratface, a nickname we still use today. Because of this fight, he has nicknamed me Fray, for causing the engagement in the first place. Now Simon and I are inseparable. He's the only one who knew even a little bit about my past. Nobody else questioned it.

"You hit like a girl, Simon," I say, taking a place next to Camille on the futon.

"And you hit like a boy."

I smile softly. I loved moments like these. I tap the inside of my cheek with my tongue and blow smoke rings with my friends until one of us falls asleep and someone else complains of hunger and we would sneak into the cafeteria, or as we call it, the Chophouse, using my spare key. Camille and I eventually fall asleep on the futon and the guys lay sprawled on the ground, but even in the company of my friends, the nightmares still await me, and Jace isn't here to save me.

The next morning, I wake up before anybody else so I could have first dibs on Simon's bathroom. I shower and brush my teeth quickly and put on the same clothes I wore yesterday. I quietly make my way out of the dorm, tiptoeing and stepping over sleeping bodies.

I stand outside my dorm room and try to open it when I realize that it's locked. I shudder, thinking about the way I walked in on Aline last night. I pull the keys out from the chain on my belt and unlock it and open the door slowly. I see Aline sleeping on my bed and her girlfriend sleeping on hers. I am conflicted; I don't know whether I should be happy that they slept separately or if I should be angry that Aline is sleeping on my bed. I quietly make my way to my dresser and pull out my clothes for the day and head over to the small bathroom.

When I walk out, I see Aline sitting up on my bed, stretching. She speaks up with an apologetic smile. "Sorry 'bout last night, Clary." Her voice is heavy with sleep.

I try to smile. "It's okay. I slept at Simon's."

"We didn't do anything, swear. I'm not ready to go that far yet."

"Okay, Aline. Good for you." I feel very awkward. I try to end the conversation by walking out the door, but Aline stops me.

"What'd you do at Simons?" She smirks and lifts her eyebrows up and down suggestively. She tries to be that roommate, you know, the one who you tell all your secrets to and become best-friends-for-life, but she just doesn't fit the role, and I don't know how to tell her that.

"I wasn't the only one there. So you know, it wasn't just the two of us."

Her grin widens. "Oh, so you're into that stuff, huh?"

I don't understand what she's implying, so I respond with, "Um, yeah."

Then she bursts out laughing. She counts down, "Three," my eyes widen, "two . . ."

"Oh god! No no no no no!" I cover my face with my hands, completely mortified.

She calms down a bit. "I'm kidding, Clare." She struggles to catch her breath, and I can feel the heat on my face through my hands. "You don't even seem the type to do that, anyway."

I nod, unable to think of words. What a way to start my morning. I turn to leave without another word, when I hear her call out, "Good morning, Clary!" I don't respond because it is indeed _not_ a good morning.

As I walk down the halls of the Quarters to the Chophouse to grab something quick to eat, I feel hands placed on my shoulders. There was a sudden pressure, like someone was trying to push me down, but instead, someone jumps on my back. Simon.

"Get off of me, Ratface!"

He places his forearm across my throat like he's trying to choke me and ruffles my head with his knuckles. "Oh, but Fray, I need you to meet a new student."

"Yeah, well you could do that without being on my back, Si!" I spin in a circle to try to get him off, but he clings onto me like it's life or death. Finally, I lay on the floor on my back, so I'm lying on top of him.

He chokes. "Please, get up! I'm sorry, I won't do that again, I swear. I need to breathe!" I don't get up. He spits out in one breath, "IamahumanbeingandIhavelungsClaryhavemercyonmysoul Iambeggingyou!"

I laugh and get up. He squirms on the ground like a fish out of water and I kick him lightly. I hold out a hand to him. "C'mon, get up, you freak." He takes my hand and pushes himself up as I pull.

Simon brushes himself off and huffs. I haven't noticed the kid standing behind him until now. He is tall, with dark hair and tan skin. His dressing attire is a bit odd, but acceptable. It includes a lot of glitter, tight pants and a dark purple trench coat, despite the fact that it's May. And for some reason, he's covering his eyes with his hands. "Are you two done yet?"

"Yes." Simon says. "Magnus Ba—"

"Wait!" he shouts. "We can't have proper introductions yet! Simon, I'm going to ask you a question about her, and you're going to answer as you see fit, understand?"

"Um," Simon's eyebrows furrow. "Yes?"

"Fantastic! What would you give her?"

"Excuse me?"

"A strong six? Seven, maybe?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Magnus shifts his hands so that his right one is covering both of his eyes and his left one is covering his mouth so that I can't see the words he says. He whispers loudly enough for me to hear anyway. "I'm talking about her tits!"

Simon's eyes widen. I grin. Simon stutters. "I-I can't just—why the _fuck_ would you ask that?"

"Just answer the goddamned question!"

I answer for him. "I would give myself four and a half."

Magnus smiles and uncovers his eyes. They're green and cat-like, but I am not too surprised. He holds out his hand. "Magnus Bane." I shake it. "I like an honest woman."

"Clary Morgenstern. They don't call me Honest Babe for nothin'."

Magnus laughs and places a hand on my shoulder. Simon is still gaping. "I like you. Walk me to the . . . to the Soup House or whatever you freaks call it?"

"Chophouse," I correct. "Don't worry, I'll get you up-to-date with the odd slang here at Commonwealth." I look back at Simon. "You coming?"

"Um, yeah. I'm right behind you guys."

Magnus and I walk side by side with Simon behind us, seeming to be in his own world. "Okay," I begin. "So what do you know about our weird dialect so far?"

"I just know that you guys have a weird dialect. That's literally it."

I laugh a little. "Okay, we call the dorm buildings the Quarters, cafeteria's the Chophouse—which you already knew. The courtyard where parents drop-off their kid for the school week or after summer, winter, or spring break is called the Commons. You could also eat lunch out in the Commons. The school is called the Blackboard and the public bathrooms are called the Shitters. We don't normally use the Shitters—we have our own bathroom in our rooms."

"Do these so called Shitters have showers in them?"

"Not all of them. I guess it depends on the location. The ones near the Blackboard do so that students who are taking a gym class can take a shower right away. Why?"

"Then you have no right to call the others 'bathrooms' when there are no baths in them. They're called restrooms, then. If it did have a shower or bathtub in it and multiple toilets, then it would not exist. Restrooms."

"Really?"

"Yes. Cherish and respect them."

Simon speaks up from behind us. "Man, are you sure? That just doesn't sound right."

Magnus whirls around to face him, his trench coat flying like a cape. He places a hand on Simon's shoulder and looks him dead in the eye. "Son, I am pretty sure."

Simon narrows his eyes, playing along. I smile. Simon speaks in a low voice. "How sure?"

Magnus doesn't falter. "Don't eat a burrito and go on a rollercoaster sure."

Simon cracks a smile. "You've just earned the coolest person of the year award. C'mon," he throws an arm around Magnus' shoulder. "Let's go get some breakfast. I'm starving."

Simon leads the way with Magnus, but before I walk with them, I sneak a glance behind me at the payphone. I feel the corners of my mouth lifting up and run to catch up with the guys.

After my fifth period ends, I make my way through the Commons and passed the Chophouse. I can't concentrate; I haven't been all day. All of my thoughts always ended up on Jace. I push my way passed the gathering crowd of students whose lunch is hour six. Once inside the Quarters, I find myself practically running to the payphone outside my room. I've managed to picture the beer bottle hidden in my room, with the numbers on it and memorize it throughout the day. My good memory is a perk of being an artist; it comes in handy if you see something beautiful and don't have a canvas on hand.

I place my hand on the phone. It's shaking. What is wrong with me? I can't do it. I can't do it. I see my reflection in the shiny black phone. I realize what a terrible mistake this was, leaving the crowd, too late. I am alone, and that means my demon will be here any second. I spin around and walk swiftly back toward the Chophouse. I sneak a glance down and see my reflection on the recently polished floor. My heart is in my throat. I am a coward. I am the biggest coward in the world. I try to focus staring straight ahead of me, but I look down again and see the familiar flicker of flaming hair and its demonic, toothy grin. I shudder and walk faster.

It tries to speak to me, ("Hey, I'm Clary.") but its voice is muffled, like it's underwater. I cover my ears with my hands and squeeze my eyes closed tight. I run. I'm back outside before I know it, the sun warming my chilled skin. Kids are scattered across the Commons, laying on blankets and eating their lunches and talking or just lying on the grass and talking. None of them notice me. I am nearly hyperventilating. I have to slow down my breath. I am okay, I am okay. The demon is gone, it's gone, and I am safe again. I take a deep breath and cross the Commons to the Chophouse. Some kids wave or smile and I recognize them from some of my classes so I wave or smile back.

I push open the doors and walk over to my table. I try to keep my hands from shaking, but they won't stop, so I stuff them in the front pockets of my paint-covered jeans. I smile as I sit down and try to join my friends' conversation, but it's hard to when I see a black pickup truck in the drop-off circle through the window. I feel the corners of my mouth lift, but don't make any move to get up and leave. I'll have to wait until sixth period is over to ditch so I don't draw too much attention. Going out now with so little people in the Commons would be very risky.

It's another fifteen minutes before the bell rings and I'm back outside in the Commons in the crowd of students. I surge through the crowd and run toward the black truck.

When I reach the truck, I tap on the window with my knuckles and he turns his head to smile at me. He reaches over and shoves the door open for me. I get in.

"Hi."

I bite my bottom lip. "Hi."

* * *

**Hey. I updated really early today. I would have let you all wait til the usual time of 10pm CDT/CST, but I'm going camping for the weekend and people normally don't bring their laptops along. Hoped you liked it (more Jace next chapter)!**

**Until next time.**

**Fully satisfied, wood painted flesh**


	4. CHAPTER THREE: TURN LEFT

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Instruments Mortal characters.**

**^you read that wrong^**

**WORD COUNT: 2414**

**This story will be updated every SATURDAY at around 10pm CDT/CST time. Although this one is a bit late, sorry :V**

**CHAPTER THREE: TURN LEFT**

* * *

Inside the car, Jace jerks his head toward the two people standing in the middle of the Commons area, staring at me.

"Who're they?"

I look behind me. Simon is shaking his head and probably rolling his eyes, but Camille is smiling and gives me a thumbs-up as they walk away. I turn back to Jace.

"They," I point behind me with a thumb, "are miserable fucks."

"Oh, are they now? What about you? Are you a miserable fuck?"

"I am a miserable fuck." I smile.

"Well how about we go be miserable fucks together over a cup of coffee?"

I smirk. "Discreetly asking me out? You're lucky I like coffee."

Jace's face flushes and he turns his head to turn on the car. The ride is silent, except for the stereo playing. Even though the two of us are strangers, the silence isn't uncomfortable. I close my eyes and clasp my hands in my lap. I lean my head back so it was resting on top of the seat because the truck had no headrests.

"Tired?" Jace asks.

I hum. "When you have a couple of potheads for friends, you don't really get to sleep. Never did get to the Chophouse when you dropped me off last night."

"The Chophouse?"

I open my eyes. "We have a weird dialect here at Commonwealth." I proceed to explain to him our slang the same way I did with Magnus earlier.

"Living the high life, aren't you?"

I look at him with a roll of my head. "If you wanna call it that."

Jace pulls into the parking lot of a local coffee shop called Hot Stuff. I snort at the name.

"What?" Jace asks incredulously. "Hot Stuff makes good coffee."

I roll my eyes but I'm smiling. "If you say so. Lead the way."

Jace opens the door for me and I pick a seat by the window in the back. He asks, "What do you want? I'm paying."

I don't argue; free coffee is the best coffee. "Black is fine." He raises his eyebrows at my answer. "I like the bitterness. Are you really that quick to judge? I thought we were buds. Now go." I shoo him away with my hands and he holds up his in surrender.

Five minutes later, Jace arrives with two steamy cups of coffee. He slides into the booth across from me and passes me my drink. I smile gratefully at him and take a tentative sip.

Jace clears his throat. "So you said you have pothead friends. Does that mean that you. . ." His voice trails off awkwardly.

I nod sheepishly. "We don't do much else. Just smoke the leaves and tobacco and occasionally drink some beer. Nothing too heavy." I take another sip of my coffee. "We popped some pills once. It was too . . . loony. Demented and everything was unbalanced, you know? Never did it again."

"So you're the bad girl type, is what I'm getting at."

I lift a corner of my mouth. "Well, we weren't exactly raised by angels. Not everyone who goes to boarding schools has mommy and daddy issues, but a lot of kids do. Some attend because parents don't want them or can't take care of them. Others because they have 'attitude problems,'" I quote with my fingers. "A small portion of people just wanna get away from home life. I wish I could say that." I sound like a pathetic little girl. I tap my knuckles on the window softly, hoping he'll get the message and drop the subject.

He does. "How's your hand?"

I shake my head, coming back to the present. "Fine," I flex my knuckles. "Thanks to you," I look up at him and smile.

He looks even more angelic than last night. The illumination of the bad lighting in the back room of the club and the streetlights did him no justice. Near the corner of his lip, there's a little white scar. He has a few freckles sprinkled across his nose and his gold eyes are even fiercer. His smile was permanently crooked, but it wasn't a bad kind of crooked.

"But seriously," my smile fades. I look down at the table. "Thanks. For last night, I mean. I was a fucking mess."

Jace scratches the back of his neck. "Do you mind if I ask what happened?"

I take a deep breath and exhale, my shoulders drooping. "I . . . I went through some shit a while back and I guess it kinda screwed me up. I guess I got a little scared."

"Scared of what?" His tone is gentle and understanding.

I sigh. I fiddle with my hands. "I see this . . . this like demonic version of myself. It shows up whenever I'm alone. I like to think that I just had too much to drink or too much to smoke that day, but I know. I _know_ it's real. And it talks to me. Named itself after me. It _is_ me. And after we . . . talk, I always end up pissed at myself for letting it get to me. And then I go and do something stupid, like punching a mirror in the bathroom of a club—sorry about that, by the way."

"Restroom." Jace interrupts.

"Seriously? You too?"

"What?"

"Nothing. Continue, please."

He still looks confused, but he says, "I understand where you're coming from. I get that way too sometimes. Well," he pauses, like he's sorting out his words. "Maybe not _that_ way. I have all of this anger built up inside of me because I don't know how to let it out." He seems surprised by his own words. "I haven't told anybody anything like what I just said."

I smile. "What makes me so different?"

His hand shoots up into his hair. "I honestly don't know. I just have a good vibe about you. Is that weird?"

I shake my head, still smiling. "It's the same way I feel." I tell him honestly.

It is silent after that, but much like before, it isn't uncomfortable. We spend the rest of the week like this, always choosing the same seat in the corner by the big glass window and later I would paint his favorite part of the day. We would talk about everything and nothing at all. Jace would pick me up at my dinner hour and drop me off before the curfew bell rang. I had to explain my weird schedule; the Blackboard began at eight in the morning and ended at three-fifteen like any normal high school would. We were free to do what we wanted on campus until five-thirty to seven forty-five for dinner hour, something we called Potluck. I can see that Jace will never understand our terminology.

It is Friday and Jace wants to do something with me over the weekend, despite having spent the entire week with me. I could tell because he asks, "Are you allowed to leave campus over the weekend?"

I scoff. "I'm not allowed to leave, _period_. What we're doing right now could get me into lots of trouble."

He places a hand over his heart. "You're doing this for me?"

I roll my eyes. "I'm doing this for coffee." I lift up my cup and take a sip, my eyes never leaving his.

"So tell me about yourself."

I set my coffee down. "Seriously? After a week of sitting here with me, you haven't learned enough?" I had a teasing smile on my face.

"I know that you like the color grey and you hate the color red. Your favorite band is The Mountain Goats. You prefer cigars over cigarettes. You love to paint and you enjoy reading and then painting the characters as you visualize them from the books. You say you have a bad past that messed you up, but I can't find any flaws in you, so I'm still trying to figure out what that something from your past is."

I laugh. "Looks like you've got me all figured out."

Jace grows serious. "Not all of you."

The smile fades from my face. "One day, Jace. One day."

"One day," Jace promises back. He smiles softly. "What's boarding school like?"

My familiar bright smile comes back. "It's definitely not what people think it is. Academically, it's tough, but there's always time to manage. And since all boarders live within about half a mile, there are always interactions going on. There will always be school dances, but the parties are usually off campus. It's much like college, along with the hookups and sex on campus. People always find a way around the security systems and dorm faculty. Most schools know this, and know they really can't stop it. Also, the drugs—basically, just don't get caught.

"I feel that I have the big family I always wanted. It isn't perfect, but it's close. There are the same jerks and assholes that exist in public school, but there are also some of the nicest, funniest, and caring people you will ever meet, and you get to become closer with those people than if you were in a public school."

Jace's smile brightens. "Sounds like you like it there."

I feel a sudden burst of happiness erupt from my chest. "I do." I hesitate before saying, "But sometimes I just . . . I wanna get away. You know? Just get a rowboat and row away."

He raises an eyebrow. "You like to travel?"

I sigh, almost wistfully. "I don't even know the definition of travel. But yeah, I would like to find out what's out there." I look out the window, my hand under my chin.

He leans back in his seat, arms folded behind his head, a lazy grin plasters on his face. "We could do it, you know. The two of us."

My head snaps back to meet his eyes. "What?"

"You're not the only one who has something to run from."

"How did you . . ." My voice trails off. Then my eyes widen in realization of what he said. "You have—you're hiding something!" I shout and point a finger at him, half-standing in my booth.

Jace looks a little embarrassed by my actions, but does nothing to stop me. He continues to smile. "I'm not spilling 'til you do, babe."

I sit down and huff, trying to ignore the fact that he called me _babe_. "What did you mean?"

Jace looks at me.

I roll my eyes. "What did you mean when you said that the two of us could do it?"

"I meant what I said. That you're not the only one with secrets. This city reminds me too much of . . . of things. I've been here too long, and for some reason you're making me remember what happened to me. Over this past week, I've been asking myself if seeing you was a good idea or a bad one because I buried those memories for a reason. I don't know if it's too much to handle, but I'm willing to fight through it."

"Why?" I whisper. "Why would you wanna go through it all again just to see me?"

He shrugs a shoulder. "Because you're worth it. You're interesting to me, Clary."

I look down at the table and play with my hands. I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. I look at the clock across the room. Potluck will be ending soon.

Jace looks at the time on his phone and exhales slowly, his cheeks deflating; they're red too. "I gotta get you outta here."

I only nod. We leave Hot Stuff in his pickup, the air around us tense. He finally arrives at Commonwealth and stops at the usual corner across the street from the campus so he won't get caught. Before leaving, I grab a beer bottle from the back and step out of the truck. I stuff it in my bag. Jace calls out to me before I close the door.

"At least think about it, okay?"

I smile and nod. "I will." Just before I close the door, I gather up my courage and swing it back open. I say, "And thanks, Jace. For what you said. I'll um—I'll see you Monday. If the phone thing doesn't work." With that, I close the door as gently as I can and round the building to the Commons.

_Perfect timing_. Students have just begun filing out of the Chophouse and I easily blend in. Clary 2.0 is not going to catch me today, nope. I find my friends and loop my left arm through Simon's right. He looks down at me and smiles. No questions are asked.

I sit in my room alone for the rest of the night. Not even Aline is present. I keep waiting for the demon, but even that never shows. I decide not to paint today. So I sit in the corner of my bed and smoke some cigars. I feel so lifeless, shapeless, lost. Lifeless as the ragdoll sitting upright on Aline's bed; shapeless as the smoke that my lungs release and as lost as a small child in a large crowd. I wonder what Jace sees in me, what's in it for him.

He thinks he knows me like he says he does, but he doesn't. He only knows the small details, the things that don't really matter. I wonder if things will still be the same if he finds out who I really am, who I've really become and who I really was. Because even I hate myself.

I wake up groggy and disoriented. I must have fallen asleep sitting upright because that's how I am when I wake. Aline isn't in her bed and it looks untouched. She must've spent the night at her girlfriend's. I slowly get up and stretch. I stumble my way to the bathroom. I do my morning routine and all of the morning necessities. I am in a zombie-like state. I don't remember how I got to my first class of the day, or even if I stopped at the Chophouse for some breakfast. Then I remember it's a Saturday. I thump my head on my desk and groan. I just hope I can make it through the day.

* * *

**Because I forgot last time: Thanks, AYOKI, noaverageangel, and MrsRebeccaBass for your lovely reviews! Like I said, sorry for the delay. **

**Until next time.**

**On track with the question, wood painted flesh**


	5. CHAPTER FOUR: VOYAGE OF THE DAMNED

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Mortal Instruments characters.**

**^you read that right, good job^**

**Thanks to desolating-impeach, InMySoul, and AllaceRose for reviewing!**

**This story will be updated every SATURDAY at around 10pm CDT/CST time.**

**WORD COUNT: 2639**

**CHAPTER FOUR: VOYAGE OF THE DAMNED**

* * *

I am sitting with my friends at lunch when I am finally bombarded with questions.

Camille is first. "So where have you been going during Potluck?"

"I go to Hot Stuff." I say guardedly.

"Hot Stuff?"

"Yeah, they make good coffee." I state, feeling like I have to defend the shop.

"Do you go there with that guy?" Camille pushes. I sense Simon tense beside me.

"His name's Jace."

Camille grins mischievously. "Have you fucked him yet?"

"No!"

"Well, why not? He's hot, isn't he?"

"I am not talking about this right now." I huff.

"Oh, come on. We haven't heard from you like, all week. You haven't even joined us for a smoke since you met him."

"Maybe because I want to—"

Camille cuts me off. "Because you want to seem normal enough for him? Well, you _aren't_, Clary. You _never_ will be. So knock it off with all the fairy tale dreams and _grow_ _up_. You're not ever going to be good enough for anyone. No one here is. Don't think you're something special! Do you really think he cares about you?"

The whole table is stunned into silence. I stare at my friend. I shouldn't be upset with her; Camille was diagnosed with bipolar disorder when she first came to Commonwealth. Her parents sent her to the school hoping to even it out a little bit when therapy didn't work. I know I shouldn't be angry, but I am.

I stand up. No one in the Chophouse has noticed our table. Simon's shoulders are hunched over as he crouches over his food and his back is tense. Raphael is trying to calm down his girlfriend and Sebastian is pretending he hasn't heard the conversation and fills out his homework sheet. Magnus is still getting food. I spin around and head toward the exit. I don't expect anyone to follow me and no one does.

Outside, with the sun overhead, my shadow appears immediately. I do everything to ignore it, but it comes anyway.

"Yo!" It said. "I'm Clary, your grief counselor! I've come to hug!"

"Go away."

"But I wanna talk. You haven't been alone at all this week—well, that one time you were, but I was busy. But other than that, you're never alone. Not even to pee. Isn't that weird?"

I stop in my tracks. I examine my shadow carefully. "Why are you here?"

"You seem upset."

"I'm not." I begin walking again.

"You are. I could tell. You wanna know how?"

"No."

"We are the same people, Clary. That's how."

"That's disturbing in every way. Go away now."

_"You're_ the one who calls _me_. If you don't want me to be here, don't think."

"Don't think?"

"Yeah. Because if you think, you realize how fucked up you are."

"I already _know_ how fucked up I am."

It is silent for a while. I have to look down to make sure it is still there. It is. Finally, it speaks up again. "I'm not evil. I've seen evil. And neither are you. Trust me. We are scared and miserable, and we take it out on each other—us and everybody else. I understand how you feel, but we gotta suffer through it—the both of us—and then it gets better. Promise."

"No. No, I am not listening to my shadow right now." I ignore the demon until I arrive at my dorm. I am hoping Aline would be inside, even hope she would be with her girlfriend so that it would go away, but no such luck. I made my way to the bathroom and take a similar position in front of the mirror as the night a week ago.

I am struggling to win custody over my mind. I look up to face it in the mirror.

"My body is not a body and it is not mine," I tell it. "That is how you make me feel. I have lost control of my life without hope of regaining it. Worry. So much _worry_, I am at the will of someone else. _You_." My body trembles with each word. I struggle to speak, as if an invisible hand was at my throat. My nerves were aching, pulsing. Calm to ill, calm to ill. "It was you, wasn't it? _You_ took everything away from me, right? _Right?_ I confront my demon every day. I confront _you_ every day, but you just keep pushing and pushing. What _are_ you? You have created _this,"_ I point to myself. "How does that make you feel? I was recovering! I was. I just want to feel wanted again!" My voice rises to a shout. "I deserve to be happy!"

That's when I notice the other face in the mirror, just a little smaller than mine. I whip around. Aline is standing there, looking at me with such disgust it hurt. She speaks. "What the hell? Are you crazy?"

I am breathing hard, my face red. I don't speak, just stare. Aline continues. "You're yelling at yourself!" I turn my head to look behind me. The demon is gone. I look back at Aline. She notices. "What the fuck is going on here?"

I push passed her, feeling a lump in my throat. I shove the door open and make my way to the nearest payphone. I dial Jace's number. He picks up immediately.

"Hey," I can hear the smile in his voice. Hearing it makes me want to smile. I don't. "It's only been a day; missed me already?"

"Yes."

"Really? Am I just that—"

"I'm accepting your offer. Come pick me up in fifteen."

Now he sounds concerned. "Hey, what's—" Jace begins, but I hang up before he can continue.

I walk back into the room. I find Aline still standing where she was when I left her. I grab an old schoolbag from my closet and begin filling some of my stuff with it. I immediately go to my desk and stuff my cigars, lighters, and cigarettes in the front pouch of my bag. I grab the smallest blanket on my bed and my favorite book. I even take the Buddha bead door hanging in the mini foyer leading into the room. I only pack a pair of jeans, a hoodie and a pair of underwear.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Aline screams just as I reach the door to leave.

"You're right," I say, my voice tight, almost unrecognizable. I walk back over to my desk and pull out a rusty ankle bracelet. The charms on it are little bells. It is the only thing left of my family. I stuff it into my front pocket and give Aline a tight smile. "Thanks," I tell her, although there is no kindness in my voice.

I storm through the halls and run out into the Commons area to wait for Jace.

I sit on the curb as I see Jace's truck pull up. He jumps out and helps me stand up. He doesn't ask any questions. He takes my bag from me and opens the bed of the truck. Inside, I see he has his own duffle bag. I wait patiently as he sorts through the back. He slams the hood shut, and places his hands on my shoulders, making me look in in the eye.

"Are you _sure?"_ His eyes are so fierce and full of seriousness that it makes me shudder. I don't answer and I don't need to. He nods once and cups my face in his hands. For a second, I think he's going to kiss me, but he pulls away quickly and heads to the driver's seat. I stand there for a minute, my arms folded across my chest and take one good look at Commonwealth and remember I didn't even say goodbye to Simon. I can only hope he'll forgive me.

An hour later I am drunk. It only takes three beers, but I am drunk. Numb. Jace tries not to laugh, and I am still trying to figure out what it is that's making him laugh.

"Who understands me but me?" I ask.

Jace snorts. "Isn't that a poem?"

"Shh," I try to touch my finger to his lips, but I miss and poke his cheek instead. "You hear that?" I cup my ear. "It's the sound of _fuck off."_

"Alright, moody."

"Life is but a dream."

"Now I know _that's_ a poem."

I ignore him. _"'A boat beneath a sunny sky,'"_ I recite. "We're in a car and it's raining._ 'Lingering onward dreamily'_—everything is kinda like woo." I wave my hands in the air. I continue._ "'In an evening of July.'_ It isn't even June yet!" I yell and smack the dashboard with my hand. "And it's like two in the afternoon!" I grab Jace's right hand and pull it off the steering wheel. I hold it up to my face. "Why does the poem lie?" I ask in a small voice.

Jace rips his hand from my grip. I pout. He says, "Maybe you should just chill, okay? Can you tell me if you had any plans on where we're going, exactly?"

_"'It's logical,'"_ I recite again. _"'If you're not going anywhere, any road is possible.'"_ I turn my head toward the window and tap on it with my fingers.

I hear Jace sigh. "Okay." He claps his hands together, but I can barely hear it. "Why don't you sort through these CDs and play the ones you like? You just relax. No more beers, okay?"

Jace lets me play the music I want and he gives me two water bottles to suck down. I try to feel guilty about leaving, about not saying goodbye to Simon who was my first friend at Commonwealth, but all I can think about is that I am actually doing what I've dreamed of doing for years. All thanks to Jace. I look over at him; his eyes are trained on the road and the traffic ahead of us. All thanks to Jace, this boy I barely know but already care deeply about.

I have been so distracted by my thoughts that I have forgotten about my mini wooden lighthouse figure in my dorm room. My father built it and my mother painted it and now I miss it terribly.

I sit up straight, bumping my knee on the dashboard, and shout, "Hot pot of coffee!"

Jace starts and looks at me with wide eyes. _"What?"_

I look at him and say, "The _lighthouse!_ I forgot my_ lighthouse!"_ I throw my hands into my hair. I begin whispering furiously. "My lighthouse. I promised Mom I would paint it for her someday."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

I grip his arm. "Promise me one of these days we'll go to a lighthouse so that I can paint it."

"Why?"

"Because lighthouses are _beautiful_, but people don't take the time to really _look_ at them and I want to show them just how—" My eyes widened. "My canvases! I forgot those too! And my paint! What am I gonna do?" I begin to cry, but I don't notice it.

He attempts to calm me down. "Alright, it's alright Clary. We'll get you more canvases and paint and we'll even visit a lighthouse one day, okay?"

"Okay." I whisper. Then I can't stop whispering 'okay.'

Jace laughs a little and it suddenly calms me down. He tells me, "You're weird."

I beam at him. "We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love."

He looks at me. "Okay," he says slowly. "You're weird when you're _drunk."_

"Drunk?" I whisper. "I'm not drunk." I then realize what I just told him about being compatible and something about love and I don't understand why I said it.

I decide to immediately change the subject. I ask him, "Will you tell me about yourself?" I'm not slurring, but I'm almost there.

Jace glances over at me. "You already know about me."

I wave at him. "No, no, no. I mean the past you. Like the you before."

He clears his throat. "You mean my past."

I nod furiously. "Yeah. Like that."

"I'm only going to tell you this because you won't remember it—or much of it. I just want you to know I'm not talking about a bad day here. The things that I saw . . . there aren't words. There's no forgetting. There's no making it better. Because it's right here." He taps his head. "Forever. You wouldn't understand. And there's no way to make you understand. So I am sorry." He stops speaking and I can see his jaw clenching. I want to know more, but I can feel sleep taking over.

So instead I say, "Okay. Thank you." I close my eyes and wait for the nightmares.

The nightmares don't come. I wake up confused, because despite the fact that I now have a neck cramp and a big headache, I slept peacefully with no interruptions. No nightmares.

The truck is stopped at a gas station and Jace is nowhere to be seen. It's raining harder than when I passed out, but I step out of the car anyway. I stretch and walk the perimeter of the truck to straighten out my joints. By the time I reach my side of the truck, Jace walks out of the gas station with two cups of coffee. He sees me and smiles and I smile back, and suddenly my heart is racing.

I see a flash of lightning in my peripheral vision and close my eyes. I count up to five three times before hearing the sky rumble. I open my eyes to see Jace staring at me curiously from the driver's side. I duck back into the truck.

"What was that all about?" He asks after I slam the door shut.

"The storm is three miles away."

"How do you know that?" He starts the engine.

"After lightning strikes, you count up to five as many times as you can before you hear the thunder. Every five seconds equals one mile. I counted up to five three times, so that equals three miles."

Jace mumbles as he pulls out of the gas station. "You learn something new every day."

I hum in agreement. Then I notice we're on a coast. In the distance stands an abandoned lighthouse. "Look, a lighthouse. I like those."

Jace grins at me. "I know. That's why we're here."

"You know?"

"You, uh, told me about wanting to paint one when you were . . ."

"Wasted?"

He smiles sheepishly. "Yeah." He clears his throat and reaches behind him. "I stopped at a cheap art store on the way and got you canvases, paint, and brushes. You were also freaking out that you forgot yours. Hope these are okay."

I take them from him and our hands brush. I try not to think about it. The canvases are flimsy; I'll have to use them gently. I smile at him. "These are shit canvases, but they'll do just fine. Thanks, Jace."

He nods in return.

I ask him, "Where are we, anyway?"

"We got caught in rush hour traffic, so we're only in New Jersey. Have a nice nap?" He chuckles.

I roll my eyes at him. He pulls over and parks, a few yards away from the abandoned lighthouse. He takes the keys out of the ignition. He asks, "Ready?"

I grin at him and shove the door open. I make my way to the bed of the truck and pull out my bag and the plastic bag of paints and brushes. I snatch a water bottle before slamming it shut. He's already halfway there, so I run to catch up to him.

* * *

**Suggestions are always welcomed!**

**Until next time.**

**Wanting to be in the loop, wood painted flesh**


	6. CHAPTER FIVE: THE EMPTY CHILD

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Mortal Instruments characters.**

**This story will be updated every SATURDAY at around 10pm CDT/CST time.**

**WORD COUNT: 2897**

**CHAPTER FIVE: THE EMPTY CHILD**

**Read the thing at the end of the chapter, pl0x**

* * *

When I catch up to Jace, he's already rounding the lighthouse to the other side of it, the side facing the sea. I'm panting as I stand next to him and shoulder my pack. The view is incredible.

I whisper, "Wow," at the same time Jace lets out a low whistle.

We're standing at the edge of a small, rocky cliff. Below is a small strand of beach. The water is the bluest blue I have ever seen and crashes lightly onto the shore. I sit down at the edge and scoot forward until my feet are dangling over. I slide carefully until one of my feet hits a solid, but jagged rock. I slowly ease myself down, but end up slipping anyway. Jace yells and I let out a small yelp as I stumble forward and cut myself on the rock.

"You okay?" Jace is behind me now, and I can't help but smile at the heavy concern in his voice.

I slowly get up and brush myself off. There's a pain in my arm, but I ignore it and send him a small smile. "I'm fine. C'mon, we gotta go down there and get a good view!"

I turn and run, not bothering to see if he follows me. When I get down to where the water meets the sand, I take off my shoes and socks and dig around in my bag for the small blanket I packed. I lay it down gently; the wind helps me spread it out evenly. I sit down gingerly and unpack all of my supplies and begin painting the lighthouse and I barely notice the sting in my arm.

After about twenty five minutes, Jace, who sits next to me on the sand looking out at the sea, asks, "Are you okay?"

I pause and look at him funny. "Yeah," I answer slowly. "Why do you ask?"

He takes my left hand from me and flips it over so my palm is facing the sky. I gasp. "You've been bleeding this entire time." He touches the cut, from my wrist to my elbow gently like that first night. "It doesn't hurt?"

"Well, I mean if I haven't noticed it this entire time, then yeah, no it doesn't hurt."

"We're gonna need to cover it up soon, hurt or no hurt." He looks to his left, where the storm clouds are. Lightning flashes in the distance. "You almost finished?"

"I've got it pretty well memorized; we can leave if you want."

He gives me a toothy grin. "I don't want to leave just yet." He stands up with a grunt and packs up all of my things. He helps me up afterward. "I wanna go in there." He nods toward the lighthouse.

I raise my eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yeah," he answers. "Maybe just wait out the storm if we find a way in. That'd be fun."

"You bet your balls it'd be fun!" I fold the blanket unevenly and stuff it into my backpack.

We run together toward the lighthouse just as the first drops of rain hit. I squeal as the cold raindrops hit my skin. Jace runs faster than me despite the sand, so he stops a few feet ahead of me until I catch up. When I do, he grabs my arm, careful of the cut, and I'm stumbling behind him.

When we reach the door to the lighthouse, I'm surprised to see it opens easily. Inside is musty and smells like old books. Jace sneezes and tells me he's allergic to dust.

We climb the circular staircase up to the middle level of the lighthouse. The staircase continues on the other side of the room, but we decide to crash here for now. A rotten bedframe sits in the corner with an old, yellowed mattress sagging on top. Someone must have lived here once. An old, mahogany desk sits against the wall. Above it, a narrow window that arches near the top is so dirty that I have to spit on my hand to wipe away the dirt and get a look outside. The view is more than appealing; it showed the small strip of beach where we came from. I could still see our footprints in the sand, despite the rain drops that now litters the area. The storm can be seen making its way across the sea.

"Beautiful," I whisper. I feel Jace come up behind me.

He speaks quietly. "It's like heaven and hell is fighting, and hell is winning."

I look at him. "Do you believe in that stuff?"

He shrugs, as if he's embarrassed. He turns away. "Is that so bad?"

I shake my head and follow him toward the center of the room. "I mean, if it gives you comfort then I guess it's okay. It's just . . . what _is_ heaven?"

He takes a deep breath. "I think that people see heaven as one big place. I believe it's more like a buttload of places all crammed together, like Disneyland. See, you got the Claryland . . . the Jaceland . . . a whole mess of Everybody-else-lands. Put them all together—heaven, right?"

I smirk. "Yeah, I guess that's one way to look at it. I'm still trying to get over the fact that you used 'buttload' and 'Disneyland' in the same sentence."

He smiles sheepishly. "What about you? What do you believe in?"

I scoff. "I don't believe in any of it. I do understand where you're coming from though. With everybody's own version of it. Hell . . . Hell would be a multi-faced mirror with like, countless reflections caging you inside so you can see the demons you refuse to look at. It wouldn't always be a place, either; sometimes it's a feeling, sometimes it's an event," I say without hesitation, "sometimes it's a person." I say this without hesitation because I remember my father.

I can feel Jace's eyes on me. "Why do you say that?"

I shake my head of the fuzziness. "Because I've been to a place like that before," I say bravely. "And I know hell is cold, because hell is not always made of fire."

Jace's eyes soften. "Clary . . ."

I blink hard. "Sorry," I say. "Sorry, it's just . . ." I wave my arms around me. "You know."

His eyebrows crease as he nods. "Yeah," he says quietly. "I know."

I look away quickly. I face the window again and I see the storm clearing up. The sun peaks through the clouds, forming a faded rainbow. I turn back to see Jace still staring at me. I point a thumb behind me. "Rainbow. Wanna get a better look up there?"

He blinks and smiles widely. "Sure, let's see if we can get up there." He practically runs to the circular staircase and I am grateful for the sudden subject change.

I grab my pack and follow him up the creaky wooden stairs.

I meet up with him again on the gallery near the lens and lantern. He's staring at the rainbow, which is easier to see.

He says, "That is the brightest one I've ever seen." I couldn't agree more.

I point to the left. "Stand a little bit over there." He does. "Okay, face the rainbow and open your mouth."

"What? Why?"

"You're going to eat the rainbow." I grin at him.

He rolls his eyes. "So original."

I bite the inside of my cheek. "Okay, fine." I set my things down and look at him with my chin up. "I need to finish this painting anyway."

As I finish the painting, Jace speaks up and asks me, "Why'd you come with me?"

I look up at him.

He has his hands closed on the rusty railings looking out at the sea. The storm is well out in the middle of the ocean. I stand next to him. After a few minutes of comfortable silence and listening to the soft rumbling of the thunder, I finally speak.

"Because on a scale from one to over-trusting, I am pretty fucking naïve."

His head whips toward me. "You don't trust me?"

I laugh. "I met you a week ago in a shady club after I went psycho on myself. I should be asking _you_ that."

"I just . . . feel like you're someone I can trust."

"And I just clarified that I trust you. Discussion ends."

Neither of us speaks for a while after that. I don't think I am mad at him or he is mad at me or if anyone is mad at all. We just sit there, and I finish my painting. The air isn't tense like I thought it would be. It is silent and comfortable, like it always is, like it ought to be. We're silent even as he bandages my arm up. As the sun sets, we decide to jump back on the road. We still aren't speaking, so it's kind of a mutual feeling.

In the car, he says, "I want you tell me what happened to you."

I snort. "You realize this goes both ways, right? I tell you, you tell me."

He hesitates. "Okay . . . but, not the whole story, right?"

I turn to him. "How about we each tell our stories little by little?"

He nods.

"You first," I say. "Who was it that scarred you?"

"No one. What happened to my family . . . was an accident. It wasn't supposed to happen."

My eyebrows furrow. "I don't mean to sound rude but . . . what's the problem?" I hear him scoff. "I mean, I understand—these people were your family and died in a tragic accident, but that's all it was—an accident. How does it affect_ you?"_

He clears his throat. "They never found the guy who did it."

"Were you there when it happened? Did anyone in your family have any enemies that might have wanted this done? Was your dad a—"

"Your turn," he says loudly.

"—psychopath?" I finish. He shoots me a sharp look. I let out a small laugh. "Because mine was." He doesn't answer, so I continue. "He's the reason I'm so . . ." I wave my hands in there, trying to find the perfect word.

"Yeah," he says.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Basically," I say, "I walk and the past walks with me. Like it lives."

"I already said 'yeah,'" he tells me.

"Okay."

"Okay."

It's silent once again.

I say, "Wanna get fake IDs?"

"Fake IDs?" He retorts.

"Yeah, fake IDs."

"Let's do it."

"Pull over," I grin. "I'm driving."

I know a guy who's got this cousin who makes fake IDs. I've met him once, and he told me I was pretty enough to get a free fake ID and I couldn't help but blush because at that point in time, no one has ever called me pretty before. He told me I could bring along another friend with me as long as they were as pretty as me and I blushed again. I figure since Jace is gorgeous, he wouldn't mind if he'd get the Pretty Discount too, along with a password he'd given me just in case he wouldn't recognize me the next time I saw him, even though he said that might be impossible. I blushed a lot the night I met him.

I pull over on the side of road instead of the parking lot of the small brick building covered in graffiti, as to not look suspicious. There are only a few windows on the building, and where there are, they've either been tinted black or painted over; Jack, the cousin, doesn't want to attract any cops. If I made fake IDs and set up shop in an abandoned building on the coast of New Jersey, I wouldn't want to attract them either.

Both the front and the back doors are boarded up, again the work of Jack to keep the attention away from the building. The only way in is the tinted window.

Jace tells me, "Are you sure this is it? Looks really shady."

I tell him, "That's the point." I prop the window open for him. I find several tattoo-clad people throughout the small building and wonder how the hell they got here. There was only one car outside—ours. I easily spot Jack, who is chatting up a girl who looks a little older than me. I look at Jace over my shoulder. His face remains emotionless as girls around him try to flirt with him, but I can see through his façade and tell he is uncomfortable. He catches me looking and attempts a smile. I smirk and motion my head for him to follow me.

I stuff my hands in the pockets of my jacket and approach him. "Hey, Jack."

He turns at the sound of my voice. He grins widely when his eyes land on me. "Clarissa, baby!" I see Jace look at me curiously. "Long time no see!" He holds out his arms and I hug him. He holds onto me a second too long and squeezes way too tight for only seeing me for the second time. "Here for some illegal fun?" He lets go of me and his eyes trail down my body. I try to hide my shudder.

"Yeah, this is my . . . _friend_, Jace." I grin wickedly at Jack and discreetly wink at Jace, begging him to go along with me. "We both need some IDs. The last guy we went to in Brooklyn ripped us off."

Jack looks a bit hurt. "You could have come to me, babe."

I smile sheepishly and try my best pouty voice. "I never found the time to come out here. You know I'm still a high school student."

He laughs. "Right, we did meet at a high school party." He opens his jacket and takes out three cigarettes. He hands one to me and one to Jace. He lights his up and hands me his lighter. "Is that how you two met?"

I look back at Jace as I stick the cigarette in my mouth and light it. He's look at his cigarette like it's from a different planet, but sticks it in his mouth anyway. I light it for him as I tell Jack, "We met up at a club—Pandemonium. Woke up in an alley and we've been hooking up ever since." Behind me, Jace chokes—either on his cigarette or my comment, I don't know.

Jack laughs and slaps Jace on the back. "Can't take a little smoke?"

Jace smiles weakly. "Been a while."

I smile apologetically at him. I turn to face Jack. "So can you help us or not?"

"I can help you," his eyes finding mine again. "But him," he points a thumb a Jace. "I said, bring a hot friend."

I whine. "Look at him. Pretty fucking sexy to me." I wink at Jace, who watches me wide-eyed but recovers quickly and gives me a toothy grin. I look back at Jack so Jace can't see my blush. "So how about it?" I run a finger down his chest, trying my best to look suggestive.

He sighs. "Okay, okay. Quit looking at me like that, you got me. I need your full names, your addresses, dates of birth, social number, height, weight, and eye color. Usually, it would be a hundred bucks, but I made a promise to a sexy little redhead." He turns around and motions us to sit at the table behind us to invent our new identities.

Jack turns away to talk to some other people while we work. I lean over subtly to Jace, who sits across from me and whisper, "Sorry. I didn't know what to expect when we met Jack and I had to work quickly to cover our story."

Jace smiles at me, playing with his cigarette between his fingers. "Does this mean I get to kiss you?"

My stomach flips. "Not yet," I say teasingly.

Fifteen minutes later, we have both come up with our new characters: I am Mary Smith and Jace is Isaac McKinley and we both turned twenty-two a few months ago. We hand the papers to Jack, and then he points to a strip of duct tape and tells me to stand their first. He tells me to smile and when I do, he snaps my picture and instructs Jace to do the same. Jack turns to us and says, "I'll just be a minute."

I lean against the wall and take a drag of my cigarette. Jace leans with me but doesn't put the cigarette near his mouth again. I can tell he looks uncomfortable with it. I tell him, "You can just stomp that out." He does so immediately. "It was only a way to fit in with them."

"With you, you mean." He says. I look at him and he clears his throat. "You fit in with some of these people here. Maybe not Miss So-Fucking-Tattooed-I-Can't-See-Any-Of-Her-Skin, but I can see you hanging around here regularly." He adds quickly, "No offense."

I look around the room and see all of the unfamiliar faces drenched in sweat and eye makeup and inhaling the smoke of their friends' friend's cigarette. Some of them smile and chuckle among their small group of friends, but a lot of them look as lost as I feel. "I can see it, too."

* * *

**Hey, this is the thing. Few notes. Number 1: people don't seem to read the top AN; I keep getting "update!" or "update soon!" and I love love love that you guys are excited for the next update and you're telling me to keep going, but I only update ever at 10PM CST/CDT (this one's a little late *sheepish smile*). There is a reason for that: so that I have a deadline, and I don't end up abandoning this story like I've seen happen so often. Number 2: I need more ideas. I could probably come up with my own if I took the day off and just _brainstormed_ but I want to write what you want to see! So suggestions are available! Thank you!**

**Until next time.**

**Imagining your lovely smiles, wood painted flesh.**


	7. CHAPTER SIX: THE GIRL IN THE FIREPLACE

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Mortal Instruments characters.**

**This story will be updated every SATURDAY at around 10PM CDT/CST time.**

**BECAUSE I FORGOT LAST TIME—Thanks for the reviews: ****InMySoul**** (twice), and ****Rachel/Guest.**

***********READ AN AT THE BOTTOM PLEASE********

**WORD COUNT: 2154**

**CHAPTER SIX: THE GIRL IN THE FIREPLACE**

* * *

Jace clears his throat. "So, why are we getting fake IDs?"

I look at him, incredulous. "Serious?" I lower my voice. "We're two teenage runaways. Might as well have a _little_ bit of fun." I raise my eyebrows. "Plus, on a less teenage-rebellion-note, we're going to need some sort of identification if we're gonna be checking into motels."

Jace hums back in response. He leans his head back on the wall and closes his eyes as we wait for Jack to get back. He scrunches up his nose as more smoke fills the room. I watch his mouth as he frowns and bites the inside of his cheek. His eyebrows scrunch up as he coughs a little. He opens his eyes and they land on me, already watching him. He smirks as the blood rushes to my face. I turn away quickly.

Jace leans down and puts his mouth next to my ear. I can feel his lips move as he speaks, and I shudder. "Like something you see?"

I bite my lip and turn my head to face him. Our noses are touching. "Well," I whisper, "since we're playing the part," I place my fingers into the loops of his belt and swing him around so he stands in front of me. He places his hands on each side of my head. "Yeah, I think—"

Someone clears their throat. I move my head to see over Jace's shoulder. Jack stands behind him, waving the IDs in the air. "Sorry to interrupt the PDA, kids, but Mary Smith and Isaac McKinley are ready to go." Jace pulls himself away from me so he can take the IDs from Jack. He grins at us. "How about a practice run, hm?"

Sweaty bodies cling to one another and sway to the rhythm of the music. I can feel Jace's front against my back, and my drunken mind immediately knows that I like my body when it's with his body. It is quite so a new thing and it's thrilling. I love him, I realize. I have loved him since the first time I saw him and somehow knew him despite myself being me. I laugh out loud as Jace squeezes my sides and even though I might have said that out loud and even though we are both very drunk out of our minds, I don't really care.

I think about his mysterious silence and surprising satirical comments. His loping long legged gait and the sadness that is so apparent in his eyes. I think I would like to just hold him forever. As he sighs into me, I want to pull him down to my face and crush his mouth to mine. I do just that.

He's stiff the moment we touch, and I'm a little hurt, but soon his mouth glides over mine and I am filled with relief and I let go of the breath I'd been holding.

I shiver as his hands roam down my sides and grip my hips. I begin to pull him down to me so that we're practically molded together when I feel him pulling us back toward the wall. Toward the exit window. I follow him, but never detach myself from him.

We barely make it out of the window without falling. Jace picks me and himself up off the ground and we practically run to the truck. He fumbles with the key (the truck doesn't unlock with a button) and I'm telling him to hurry up because I really liked where we were going.

Once the door is open, he shoves me inside and I lay across the bench seat. He almost throws himself on top of me and starts peppering my neck with kisses. I can smell his breath and I nearly jolt with realization that I'm going to have my first time in a rusty old pick-up, drunk. I pull him back up to my mouth.

In the next few minutes, both mine and his shirts are off and we begin to roam each other's bodies. On his chest and back I can feel rough patches of skin, like scars, but my mind is too hazy to examine them more clearly. As he touches and gropes me, I feel warmth pooling between my thighs and I am completely lost in euphoria.

As he begins to unbutton my pants, he brings his mouth down to my ear and whispers, "My family died in a house fire."

I'm about to reply with a simple "Mhm," but the haziness is beginning to clear up a little bit, and my mind registers the words he just said. I push his shoulder back and look at his face. He's crying. _"What?"_

"I . . . I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—" Jace takes a deep breath and pushes himself away. He sits up in the driver's seat and rakes his hands over his face again and again.

I throw my shirt back on, angrily. "You didn't mean to what? To take advantage of me? Is that it?"

"It wasn't like that—"

I interrupt him. "Don't. Be sorry, I mean." I say gently, "I took advantage of you too, and I'm not sorry."

Jace only nods, his head in his hands and I feel guilty. I sigh and scoot myself over to him. I place my lips on his neck, which is curved away from me, looking out the window. His soft hair stands up but he says nothing. I tell him I'm sorry and that he could trust me with anything, but he doesn't respond. I don't bother trying to cheer him up. I fall asleep there, with my head on his shoulder. Just before complete darkness overwhelms me, I feel him wrap his arm around me and his soft lips to my temple.

I wake up to the sound of fingers tapping on the window. I'm lying on my side with Jace behind me. He must have moved us last night. I look up lazily to see Jack tapping on the window. His mouth is moving and his voice is muffled. I grunt softly as I roll down the window. I squint up at him.

"You guys need to leave. Seen a couple of cops patrolling nearby. Don't want you two kids gettin' caught out here."

I smile at him. "Thanks, Jack. I'll come back to visit, okay?" I lie.

He flashes me a toothy grin. "Is that a threat or a promise?"

I only laugh in response. The guilt is so heavy; I don't trust what would come out of my mouth. I watch him walk away.

I shake Jace awake gently. He gets up painfully slow, sends me a soft smile before kissing my cheek and sitting up straight. He places his hands on the steering wheel and takes a deep breath. He looks at me. "What's up?"

I clear my throat. "Jack's seen some cops nearby. Says we should hit the road. He sends his love."

Jace only nods and starts the engine. I know he's thinking about what happened last night because I am too, and I'm sure if I looked in a mirror I would have the same distant expression on my face.

We drive out of New Jersey in silence and I don't bother to ask where we're going and he doesn't bother to ask for directions. I can see his mouth opening slightly every now and again, as if he's about to say something but changes his mind right away.

Eventually, as we cross the border from New Jersey to Pennsylvania, he asks, "Are you okay?"

I look at him and scoff. "Are _you_ okay?"

He nods.

"Jace," I say sternly.

He lifts up his hand. "Hey, I'm okay. I'm _okay_. I'm the King of Okay."

I cross my arms over my chest. "We have to talk about this, you know."

"About what, Clary? The fact that I almost raped you?"

"I wanted it as much as you, Jace, so you just shut the hell up!"

Jace is stunned into silence. He glares at the road and growls, "Then I don't know what we need to talk about."

"About your _family_, Jace!" I say, exasperated.

He shouts, "That is not open for discussion! I said it because I was distracted and—and scared!"

"Oh, we're all scared. _That's _the big secret, Jace. We are _all_ scared!" His hands tighten on the steering wheel and when he doesn't respond, I continue. "We're all trapped inside cages. Planted, we can never get out. But me? I was born in mine. I don't mind it anymore."

"But you should," Jace tells me. "You should mind it."

I laugh softly. "I do mind it. I just say I don't."

"So why lie?" Jace asks softly.

I take a deep breath before responding. "Because I'm lonely. I hate it, but I've always tried hard not to make any friends because I don't want them to suffer with me."

"So I just got stuck with you, huh?" He says jokingly.

I smile sheepishly at him. "Sorry."

"There are worse things than being alone but it often takes too long to realize this and most often when you do it's too late and there's nothing worse than too late. So I'll be there." He takes my cold hand in his warm one and smiles down at me. "I'll keep you happy, Clary. I'll keep you alive. I promise."

I can't suppress my smile, so I lean up and kiss his cheek. Before pulling away, I whisper, "You're not getting away with it that easily."

His smile slowly retreats. "Later. I promise. I have to try and make up a way that it would make it easy for me to tell you. In the meantime, let's find a place to eat."

We find a McDonald's in a small town in Pennsylvania. After ordering, we both sit down at a table in the corner. I wait for him to speak.

Jace exhales deeply. "We weren't a typical Manhattan family. My father was a well-known businessman and my mother worked with Maryse Lightwood—the Lightwoods are who I live with now. They knew a lot of good people. Good, wealthy people. My father and another man were competitors. They hated each other—not even my mother like the guy's wife."

I raise my eyebrows at him.

He holds his hands up in surrender. "I know, I know. I'm delaying the inevitable." He sighs deeply. "We were on vacation. We had a beach house on Long Island. My mother was pregnant. She was due in a few weeks—at the time. I was making a joke, saying how she needed to stay close to the fireplace until her egg of a stomach cracked open—I didn't realize how birth worked yet. What ten-year-old would?

"And she was telling me how it was too hot to have a fire going, but I kept on whining and crying and eventually she just did it to shut me up. I was just a stupid, ungrateful kid."

"Kids aren't supposed to be grateful. They're supposed to demand candy and break your heart," I tell him softly.

Jace snorts. "If only someone told me that earlier. That way I wouldn't have blamed myself all these years for their deaths."

My eyes widen. "Oh, Jace, you really don't think that, do you?"

He rubs his hands over his face. "How else do you explain it? The house burned to the fucking ground. My father died almost instantly when a ceiling beam fell and crushed him. They found my mother alive . . . but, she died in the ambulance. Inhaled too much smoke, I think. Broken back, et cetera. They were able to cut the baby out of her, though. A little girl. I had—have . . . a little sister."

"Where is she now?" I ask quietly.

"I don't know." His eyes are red and his voice quivers.

"You don't—" I try a different approach. "What happened to her?"

"I was too young to decide where she went. Up for adoption, I suppose." His voice was dead.

"Did they name her?"

"Y-yeah. After my mother, Celine. I don't know what her full name would be now, though."

"Celine," I try to keep my voice optimistic, "We can find a library. Do you remember the name of the hospital?"

"Saint Vincent." He said automatically.

"Perfect. We find a library," I repeat, "We send an email to the facility, see what happened to her."

Jace is staring at the table. He nods, but he has a distant look in his eyes.

I place my hand over his. His eyes slowly trail up to meet mine. "We'll find her, Jace. If you are here to make me happy, then I'm _made_ for you."

The corner of his mouth twitches.

* * *

*******DOoooOOOOOONNNnnnnTtttTTT iggIIIGGGINNOORReeeeEEE THIS please.*******

**I was really really really demotivated to write this chapter, hence the short length. Aaaand I need your help. LOOK DOWN THERE.**

**Hey, there's an important AN that a lot of people missed/ignored last chapter and I'd really really love it if you read it and gave me feedback via PM **_**or**_** review. Thanks!**

**Until next time.**

**With a hug, wood painted flesh.**


	8. Important AN

Hey guys. I really hate to do this, but I'm having a change of heart and it's not just with this story. I'm thinking of shutting down my account completely. I may or may not come back with a new one, I just feel like my heart isn't in writing anymore.

Plus to make matters worse, I'm _extremely _busy this month of October. I'm going to be moving anytime between the fifteenth and the first of November, and I volunteer at a haunted house on the weekends and it's all just clashing with my writing.

If I do decide to create a new account, I will most likely put up my work that I feel has been my best, including my Percy Jackson stories and possibly the Mortal Instruments one. I'm afraid that will be the only way of finding me again, unless you message me on and ask me for my tumblr url, which I will respond to.

This message will be only up temporarily.

Again, I really hate doing this, but I just don't think I can manage it, even if my excuses are little and probably not the best. And I'm really sorry to be so abrupt about it. To be honest, I haven't thought about this as much as I probably should have.

Thank you for all your support!


End file.
